Shall We Dance?
by WOWZAcoolBEANS
Summary: In which the pauper prepares the prince for his ball. /ElliotxLeo fluff; happy death day, Elly!/


**Title:** Shall We Dance?

**Synopsis:** In which the pauper prepares the prince for his ball. /ElliotxLeo fluff; happy death day, Elly!/

**Rating: **K+

**A/N**: I haven't written fanfic in months, but upon learning that it is Elliot's death day, I thought I'd whip up a little something. That being said, I'm a bit out of practice, so I feel they're a bit ooc. Also, I took no time to edit this, so there are probably vast errors of the grammatical sorts. And it's very dialogue heavy, which would probably make my creative writing teacher cringe. Whatevs, whatevs. Enjoy it anyway. Happy death day, Elliot. Hope you're enjoying it in heaven.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Pandora Hearts_, its characters or anything affiliated with it.

…

Elliot sat on the canopy bed on top of lush navy covers with gold trimmings. He pulled his knees up to his chest, forgetting that he was still wearing leather loafers, and that they may get his sheets dirty. Leo sighed, shook his head, and put a bookmark between the pages of his book.

"What is it?" Leo asked, setting the volume of a crime series he liked down on the table. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and looked his master—his friend?—up and down.

As usual, Elliot seemed to be pulled somewhere between taciturn and constipated. His habitual pout was on as he picked at a loose golden thread on his comforter with his index finger. He had on his favorite vest and shirt combination—when had Leo learned what his favorite vest and shirt combination was?—though he wouldn't admit it to anyone who asked. Just a plain white button down with a brown vest; the neat navy tie around his collar matched his navy pants. He had obviously discarded his more ornate jacket, but still looked the gentlemanly part.

Of course, Elliot did not often act like a gentleman, even if he did save servants from bloodthirsty chains and sacrificing his freedom with the process and not even remembering it. Not a gentleman at all.

"Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to tell me what's—"

Elliot sighed with the dramatic timing of an opera character about to die of tuberculosis. "Nothing. Quit pestering me." Anti-climactic; Leo wouldn't humor him and his passive-aggressive ways any longer. He picked up his book, opened it up, started counting and pretended to read.

There was blissful quiet, broken only by the steps of the lesser Nightray servants outside of Elliot's room, probably to prepare guest bedrooms for guests staying over at the ball. It was being touted around as the event of the season, though Leo doubted it could really be better than the Reinsworth Ball he had heard about; it was rumored that the entire street had to be repaired after that night.

"Leo?"

Fifty-three seconds.

"What, Elliot?"

Fifty-six seconds.

"I can't dance."

Leo looked up, smirking.

"Aren't they supposed to teach you things like that when you're upper-class?"

"Shut up." Elliot focused his attention very seriously on the bit of string. "It's just that tomorrow night is my first ball, and I'll be expected to dance a bit." He paused. "I don't want to bring shame to my family. That's all."

"Like you did when you quit dance lessons after the first week because you'd have to put your arms around a girl?"

Elliot's face grew a charming shade of crimson; Leo smiled, cheeks touching the cold metal rim of his glasses—still wasn't used to those—and let out a small, contented chuckle. "Wha… What the hell? How did you know?"

And with that, Leo laughed heartily.

"What's with that laughter?" Elliot breathed in sharply and abandoned his thread.

"I wasn't being serious!" Leo managed between chuckles.

Elliot's face fell. "Damn it," he said, loosing steam. He flopped back onto the bed, head luckily colliding with a pile of comfortable pillows, and not the headboard. "Asshole."

With a few labored breaths, Leo was able to stop laughing. "You walked into that one, Elliot." Elliot grunted in response. "But since I am your servant, I guess I will have to help you."

Elliot sat up, eyebrows drawn together. "What do you mean?"

Leo stood up and wiped some imaginary dust from the front of his trousers. "I mean, get off your lazy butt and I'll teach you how to dance."

"I don't buy it; where would you have learned to dance?"

As much as Leo hated to think about it—think about what you did to him, think about what you did to him, think about what you did to him—Elliot did look his cutest when confused. The little lines that formed between his eyebrows… How he pursed his lips into an almost straight line… Of course he dazzled when he smiled, but the moments that the all-knowing Elliot to admitted to confusion were the ones Leo looked forward to the most.

"The matron at the orphanage taught us all. I usually played the piano, but she'd make me dance sometimes when I wasn't feeling too surly." He took a deep breath. "Now are you going to sit there and embarrass yourself tomorrow, or are you going to get up and dance with me?"

Elliot didn't meet his eyes. Leo followed his gaze to the carved wooden armoire on the other side of the room. An antique; probably passed down through the Nightray family through generations. Dragons were beautifully and carefully carved into it. It would probably be worth a fortune if the family ever decided to sell it. "But you're a guy." Leo wanted to burn it.

Of course, that was the other problem. His apparent straightness. For a guy who would spend an hour agonizing over whether his slacks matched his suit coat—well, that was only one time, but it did take him _forever_ to get dressed—he spent a lot of time talking about how he was straight. Leo hoped he protested too much.

"Well, if you don't want to—"

"No!" Elliot said too quickly, swinging his legs off of the bed and onto the Oriental rug it sat on. "No, I want to learn." He walked to Leo on the other side of the room until they were inches apart. "Teach me." Elliot smelled like trees.

Leo cleared his throat. "Fine." He took a deep breath and began. "Now, take my waist…" Red-faced, Elliot complied. "Now, the meter is 6/8 and you'll be moving…"

…

Three hours later, and well past midnight, Elliot could do a passable waltz, a reasonable polka and a decent foxtrot. He still fumbled over the moves, and was royally screwed if the orchestra started playing anything more foreign than those, but could at least spin Leo around without killing himself or his partner.

And that's all a fifteen year-old boy can really ask for, in the end.

Leo broke from Elliot, panting for breath. "We… should stop." He wiped some sweat from his forehead. They had just stopped a particularly up-beat polka, which involved a lot of laughing and very little breathing. Elliot began loosening his tie. "You have to look good for tomorrow. No bags under your—"

"Wait," Elliot said, pausing, his fingers still tangled in his neckwear. His blue eyes were shining with the exercise, his chest moving up and down a bit too fast. He was in better shape than Leo, but small beads of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks, dripping down his chin and onto his neck…

Leo looked at that armoire again; it was a really nice armoire.

"I want to try the waltz. One more time."

Leo looked back, mouth already opening with complaints of hurt feet and a sore back, but Elliot was already closing the distance between them and taking Leo's waist in his hand. "Your tie is askew," Leo said, still a little breathless, but for a different reason now.

Elliot snorted. "Do me a favor and shut up." Elliot began to hum a tune and his feet picked up with it.

Of course the tune would have to be the one the Leo wrote him: Lacie. The one that Elliot thought he wrote himself, that reminded Leo of all of the terrible things he had done, what he had made Elliot do. He looked down at their feet stepping around each other's in time.

Until Elliot's hand was on his chin, tilting it up. Though Elliot was still humming, Leo could imagine what Elliot was trying to say. And he wanted to respond, "I'm looking at you, Elliot. I always am," but refrained. The light from the candelabra behind Elliot reflected in Leo's glasses, and shone into Elliot's eyes.

The last minor notes resolved and Elliot stopped moving. "Thank you," he said, curiously not moving his hand from Leo's waist.

"It's my duty," Leo said. "As your servant."

Elliot swallowed and Leo could still hear footsteps outside of the room. Did the maids here ever sleep? "You didn't teach me to do one thing, though."

Leo cocked an eyebrow. "You're not ready to lift anyone, Elliot, you can barely—"

Elliot rolled his eyes. "I meant that you never taught me how to kiss my partner goodnight."

The sounds of hushed footsteps and the sizzling of the candles echoed through the room as Leo swallowed, throat suddenly dry. The light flickered from behind Elliot, candles worn out and almost near their ending point. "Oh," Leo said, reminding himself to change out the candles in the morning. "I'm not sure I have too much experience on that front," he said after too long a pause, too many seconds passing by.

"We'll have to fix that, then."

Elliot's lips were soft against Leo's, softer than he would expect, knowing what a hardhead Elliot could be. But his hands were tight around his waist and firm as they pushed Leo's body closer, until no part of Leo was not touching Elliot. Leo parted his mouth and let out a small sigh as he griped either side of Elliot's face, willing him closer, closer, closer until they candles burned out.

And the two of them stood there, practicing, until they eventually did.

…

_**Fin**_


End file.
